Voices Speak Too Loudly
by Tenkasen
Summary: It's not a tough choice. Blind, stupid loyalty, all the way.


**Title: Voices Speak Too Loudly**  
**Summary:** It's not a tough choice. Blind, stupid loyalty, all the way.  
**Rating: T**  
A/N: For **Black Friar**, who requested Robin!Dick, dark!fic, whump, and angst. I may have overdone it. Whoops. Also, I still know next to nothing about anything medical, please forgive any blatant errors regarding that.  
**Don't own Batman.**

* * *

_…16384, 32768, 65536, 131072…_

Breathe in, breathe out.

Take a second to stabilize, to cast out any weakness, any emotion, _anything_. There is no room for anyone inside anymore. If they find a soul, finding the stupid kid and traumatized soldier inside a body too young and too old, it will be decimated, and he can't let that happen. To become an empty shell… He's of no use as a comatose patient, broken or not. Death would be preferable.

Lock out the body, hide in the mind, that's all he needs to do.

Pain is relative. It's not important, not really. Dick knows the tricks to shutting it out, mind over matter, pure meditation, whatever it takes to feel nothing. It's not easy, it's not pleasant, but he knows how to do it. He just doesn't like it. The feeling of nothing, it's like being numb and made of ice. Motionless. A statue.

He'd take the pain, if he could. Pain was an ever constant reminder that he was still living, still breathing, and still _himself_. Without it, things just blur together; colors that bleed in and out, light that leaks into darkness, sounds filtered and muffled. He loses himself, and the longer he's like that, the harder it is to pull back in.

But they're hoping to break him. And if Dick's anything, he's stubborn. The hell is he going to crack and be some twisted _joke_. Pain or numbness. He'd manage.

It would be nice, though.

Be rescued.

Anytime now.

It's fine, for the moment.

It's not like he could feel anything.

* * *

Time works funny when trapped in both mind and body, and almost completely cut off from anything beyond that.

Dick has absolutely no sense of it. Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, and hours… He's not sure exactly how long he's been there, but days? Being there for _day_ would be bit of a stretch. At least, he's pretty certain. He doesn't remember being fed, though all he'd need is a decent amount of water every two days or so, and he could theoretically survive roughly two to three weeks without food.

He doesn't like the implications of that thought.

Dick tunes the world out. Or falls asleep.

He's still not sure how long he's been there.

* * *

Asleep. He had definitely fallen asleep.

Because otherwise he couldn't have woken up to the feeling of something piercing his shoulder. Blade, sharp, about one and a half inches wide, not very long. The pain was unexpected and that little surprise certainly torn down some of his walls. He bit his lip and kept silent.

_Reset.  
2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128…_

Don't _feel_, think, think, _and think of nothing._

Breathe in, breathe out.

Pain, what pain –

The knife _twists_, and suddenly, like a knee-jerk reaction, Dick bites down on his lip hard to keep silent, can't scream, _can't scream no no no, _and it's enough for blood to dribble down his face and onto the ground. A couple of small red dots on a black and red floor. Huh. Red and black, red and black, what does that remind him of…?

A high pitched laugh shows _someone_ is taking pleasure at his pain, and Dick remembers why he checked into _cabeza de Grayson _and out of his body. He doesn't want to remember their faces, their costumes, _their grim and stretched out smiles…_

The wound burns though, like a hot fire cut a hole and crawled its way inside with a rusty spoon. It's more food for thought than he's had in a while. It's _feeling_, temperature, pressure, volume.

It's too late now, he's let it in, and he can't just turn it off like a switch. That's not how it works, not with him. Batman could have, maybe, probably, but that's _Bruce_, and Dick sometimes has serious doubts whether or not his mentor can _feel_ anything anymore at all.

After all, if that feminine, high-pitched voice that Dick tries to block out, is to be believed, he's been here for nearly four days.

_Bats has been a no-show, can ya believe that? Mistah J is so displeased!_

* * *

After a while, the knife is removed and the wound patched up in the same manner Dick would expect from a five year-old and her first time with a sowing kit – painful, clumsy, and messy. He's not sure if it's because the hands threading dental floss through the skin is really that bad or really that sadistic. It's probably both.

It stings, but as much as Dick would like to worry about potential infections or the idea that the wound might re-open someone and he might bleed all over the checkered floor, he had to compose himself.

Harley stalked off once she was done, bored or something, like a cat that had better people to get attention from. There was only one person that Dick could think of that fell onto that list, and the last thing he needed to do is imagine an encounter with _him_, much less go through with one.

…_256, 512, 1024, 2048, 4096…_

Breathe in, breathe out.

Take a second to stabilize, to cast out any weakness, any emotion, _anything_…

* * *

There used to be a map on the inside of the trailer he lived in with his parents, long ago, though not as long as it seems but enough to feel like a lifetime ago. Living with Bruce did that. The _mission_ made time work funny too, made him feel old and tired, less like a kid every day.

The map… It was a country-road map, simple, large, and cheap. Clear enough to know what's where, not clear enough on the details of things in between. It was old too, probably missing a few new routes and roads that could be quicker. But it didn't really matter. Not like they used it for actual navigation.

It was full of pins. Dick recalls the sizes and colors, but not for what they all stood for exactly. They were spots the circus would be arriving at, to visit, to entertain, and to leave again. Small towns marked with certain pins got the safety net, less interesting tricks, less danger. Big cities with the other pins got the dangerous acts, the death-defying stunts, and all the stuff that'd draw a crowd. Gotham, though, Dick distinctly remember, had a large black pin that dominated all of the east coast.

He'd asked his dad about it once.

Gotham was _the_ biggest stop, no hold barred, _everything_ went into the show, for each and every member of the circus. It strayed from amazing to terrifying, from awesome to mind-blowing. No net. Highest risks. All or nothing.

Dick asked if it was because Gotham was a really, _really_ big city. His dad replied… replied…

'**HEY, BIRD BOY? HELL-O? ARE YOU IN THERE? HEEELLLLLOOOOOO.'**

His dad replied that there was a hunger, about Gotham. The words faded with time, but Dick recalls something ominous as he looks back at it. A hunger that you either fed, or ran from. Gotham devoured people, Dick saw that every night. There was a high price to pay, trying to make a good life living in that city.

'**YO, ROBIN! BIRDY! SIDE-KICK! INSERT-DEROGATORY-REMARK-ABOUT-BASTY-AND-YOU-HERE!'**

…What color hair did his mom have? It was weird, he remembers its length, enough to fall past the shoulder and be tied back into a ponytail to keep from getting in the way, but the color escapes him. Sometimes it looks blonde. Other time, chestnut brown.

His dad had black hair, like his. Jet black, charcoal black, black black, whatever. Dark. Dick was certain of that. He just wasn't sure why his mom's hair wasn't… clear.

Hm.

He was sure it wasn't red, at least. Barbara Gordon had red hair. Vivid, red and when the sunlight hit it just right it was like it glowed. Not that he was staring or anything, because the Commissioner would probably shoot him on spot if he thought Robin was crushing on his daughter, but maybe Dick Grayson had a chance…

'**Okay, look, I'm **_**sorry**_** bird brain! Really! I know I've hurt your feelings, and your bones, and your shoulder, and probably something else you heroic caped crusaders of the night (oooohhh) find somehow important, but really, this is a bit **_**childish**_**. Hiding inside that little noggin of yours? Really? That's no way to go through life! The only **_**real**_** way is go with a BANG!'**

Babs liked flowers, didn't she? Or maybe not. Flowers… red hair… Poison Ivy might appreciate the gesture more. Or maybe not… Plucking flowers was like plucking the heads off her children. She didn't take it very well. After the last Valentine's Day fiasco, it probably wasn't worth risking the chance that Gotham's supply of roses weren't poisoned or something with _another_ deadly neurotoxin.

'…**Wow, okay, don't even blink. Yeesh. What has Batsy been **_**teaching**_** you? You're a kid! You're supposed to **_**laugh**_**, and **_**scream**_**, and **_**do something**_** when a six inch knife cuts through your stomach. I'm going to have to get Harley to fix that, this floor is as dirty as it needs to be already. Hn. On second thought, maybe Bats'll smell your blood like a hound and come running faster? What do you think, boy blunder? Huh? Huh? …Yeah, you're probably right. I mean, I expected him a week ago. He sure is taking his time, ain't he? Probably brooding in dark romantic hole or something.'**

Speaking of Poison Ivy, Batman was talking about the fact she may have broken out or something. Dick adds 'or something' because most of that recorded message was lost when his communicator fell out of his hands and under the foot of – _no no no don't go there no no STOP DON'T GO THERE._

Reset.

_Name, Richard John Grayson. Age, fifteen years old. Former occupation, circus performer. Current occupation(s), student, side kick, vigilante. Favorite color, blue…_

'**Then again, who's to say he hadn't just **_**ditched**_** you? I could have warned you, it's **_**probably**_** the costume; anything bright and cheerful just scares away the big bad bat. I mean, look at me! I'm also a little crazy, but eh, details. But you. You're just some kid, with probably **_**potential**_** and **_**future**_** and yadda yadda. Getting caught though, that's a pretty big screw up. I mean, really? You fell for the old dead Joker gag? Not even Batsy falls for that anymore.'**

…_Fir… F… First crush, Raya Vestri. Former… home, Haly's Circus. Current home, Wayne Manor…_

'**You know the **_**usual**_** drill, I kidnap you, you be a good little traffic-light-colored-piece-of-bait, Bats swoops in, I have a little **_**fun**_**, and you two get to leave on your merry little way until next time. But Bats is never late, and boy, is it just me, or did he just toss you out and left you here to die? I mean, not sure if you noticed, being all quiet and dead-like – waitdoyoustillhaveapulse? …oh, you do – but no one has shown up to claim their lost Robin! And it's not like I've been ignoring you, because Batsy usually has this, bird-boy-is-in-pain-radar that kicks in, so we tried getting a message across. Even Harley decorated your back quite nicely, though her penmanship needs work. Really, no style at all, these gashes look ridiculous in contrast to your skin. Should've been harder, better coloring that way, but oh well. I'll give her firsthand knowledge of it later.'**

_If… a… a plane crashes and ev… every single person… dies, who… who are the… the survivors? The couples… What i...s broken… wh… when you say it? Si…lence. If you… ha… have it, you'll want to… to share it, but if you… share it, it's gone? A secret…_

'**And really, while you have been putting up a brave front and trying to pretend you can't **_**feel**_** or whatever, you can't stay that way for looonnnnggg~! Oh, you'll wake up. Somehow, someway, you will. I'll make sure you get a nice wakeup call. And you'll feel **_**everything**_**. The **_**lashes**_** on your back, the **_**gouges **_**in your skin, the **_**gunshot wound**_** in your leg, **_**the broken bones**_**, **_**the cuts, the bruises, the burns, EVERYTHING**__. _**Then I'll do it to you again. And you won't be leaving. You can't hide; not behind the mask I left you with, not the costume that's falling to pieces, not in your body, not even in your empty melon brain.**

**Bats may not have come for you, but hey, you know where he lives, right? I'm not interested in who he is, or you for that matter, because that **_**ruins**_** the surprise, but Bats has forced my hand. I'm going to need some names or places soon, kiddo, and well, I'm sure we'll have fun chatting. Then you can die, I'll let you have that. How does that sound?'**

* * *

_A boy is locked in a room with a psychopath, tortured and beaten, lost and broken. He's got no weapons, no words, and no plan. Back up didn't come. Back up left the boy. He doesn't know why. He knows that he's been abandoned, like a puppy in a cardboard box. Pathetic. Useless. Unneeded.  
He can detach further, and lose himself to numbness that he might not come back from. Or he can succumb to the pain and talk. Be a traitor. Get a quick(er) death. What does the boy pick?_

* * *

…

…

…

It's not a tough choice.

Blind, stupid loyalty, all the way.

* * *

Two weeks later, a dark shadow breaks into the warehouse. It's ungainly, swaying precariously in a sickly manner, like a man who's been drugged and unconscious for a long stretch of time. Like a man, who had been injured in a brutal accident that coincided with an event he hadn't been aware of, and been recovering in a hospital and should still be there, because he hadn't given his body enough _time_ to heal…

Time…

He's wasted time. Too much of it.

The man in the bat costume wastes no more of it.

* * *

_Little broken boy, little broken boy, little broken Robin, shut up and scream, shut up, scream. It's pain you want, pain you don't want, want, don't want, want, don't want, want, don't want, want._

_Can you feel a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g-?_

* * *

It's like a broken pedestal that Robin sits on, arms pinned the wall behind him, blood smeared like paint on the walls in words and pictures. His body is slack, his arms pulling at his restraints as gravity weighed down on him. It screamed _you were late_.

The wounds on his body were numerous, most half-treated and others infected. The most recent injury was still bleeding, a heart still alive enough to weakly pump blood. It screamed _I'm still dying because of you._

His hair is greasy with oil, blood, chemicals, and half of it is bleached into a sickening green. His costume is in tatters, dirty and he could see no color in them any longer. It screamed _look at everything I endured._

His mask is half torn. His single blue eye visible is open. It was blank.

It screamed _look at what I gave up for __**you**__._

* * *

Getting out isn't a problem, it's a disaster set on 'suicide', but Batman pulls it off anyway, worse for wear but with his ward in his arms and a trusted voice on speed-dial. Hospital. Now. Three weeks ago would have been preferable, but regret was useless and –

Breathe in, breathe out.

Control is key, stabilization necessary, weakness's not allowed, emotions a hindrance…

* * *

His costume is already unrecognizable, all Bruce does is remove the mask and the 'R' symbol, and suddenly it's Dick Grayson dying in his arms, maybe already dead, maybe not.

Batman lets go, lets the boy – _boy – _ get rushed to Emergency, the blood stains still on his costume, the mask crumbled in his fist, the image plastered into his memory.

It screamed _your fault_.

He's gone by the time the head nurse looks back.

* * *

Miracles happen, but at a cost.

Dick Grayson is stable, just barely, he is told, but is in a comatose state with no idea _if_ he'll wake up, let alone what would happen if he did. Brain damage, the doctor tells him, is likely. Or a permanent physical disability. Or amnesia. Or some serious case of psychological disorder. Or…

Bruce hangs up.

* * *

Alfred visits daily, the fact evident from the vase of flowers and well-kept state of Dick's room. Dick is lying in a standard bed, well tucked in and still as pale as he recalled. He looks peaceful, and too still to be real. Bruce steps through the door like it's a warzone, every step careful, calculated, and precise. The room's only occupant doesn't stir.

Bruce stands there. For a minute, for an hour, he doesn't know.

He steps out before anything can happen.

* * *

Three months, and the doctor finds the courage to ask the question in that time.

It's full of sympathy, regret, and guilt, but Bruce has her in tears by the time he closes his mouth. He turns back to Dick, his attention returned, and says nothing again for a long time.

He strokes Dick's head, hair normal, clean, though messy as if it were any regular day. His hand shakes, _trembles_, a little.

Bruce leaves when visiting hours are over.

The police department finds a pile of criminals, a hump beaten, bloody, broken bodies at their doorstep the next morning, barely breathing and giftwrapped for prison.

* * *

Six months.

Alfred brings up the idea.

_He wouldn't have wanted this. Too full of life to be confined to that bed for the rest of it. It's a mercy._

Bruce treats Alfred with politeness and civility he'd show no one else, and quietly excuses himself from the table with a closed look and a hand in a tight fist.

The next month is spent in the cave, researching, searching, and looking for answers, for cures, for a way of redemption.

Nothing else matters.

* * *

Nine months.

No progress.

* * *

At the ten month mark, Alfred find's that it lands on Dick's birthday.

Bruce breaks from study, from work, to sit in Dick's hospital room and listen to the heartbeat monitor. _Beep. Beep. Beep._ Constant. Reassuring.

It screamed _I'm alive but dead inside._

It screamed _still your fault._

* * *

A year to the very day, that _day_, Bruce finds himself with no leads, no miracles, nothing that will help, and in Dick's room, sitting at his bedside with pain and numbness warring inside him. Pain that pounded in his head, yelled and screamed at him, his _fault_. Numbness that flowed through his veins, leaving him feeling strangely cold and detached.

"Dick," Bruce says, voice raw and rusty from disuse. Billionaire playboy philanthropist loses charm and need for a day-time mask when it doesn't matter. Lost meaning a year ago. "Dick."

No response.

"You need to wake up."

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"I… I can't find anything, or anyone. That can help. There's… it's up to you."

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"I don't… want to leave you like this. It's not what you would have wanted, is it…? I'm… sorry…"

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"There's nothing I… You have to wake up. Soon. Or else tomorrow, I… You understand. Please. I don't. I don't want to do this."

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"It's my fault you ended up like this. I shouldn't have let you become Robin. That was my mistake. As is everything that occurred to you because of it. No social life, no friends, no parties, nothing a normal child should have. I'm sorry."

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"There's nothing more I can say. I can't order you to wake up. I can't apologize until you do. Just. Please. I… you… you're the closest thing I have to a son. Dick, wake up."

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

* * *

_A boy is locked in his mind for a year, lost and drifting, broken yet mending. There's a voice outside that urges him to leave his little world of safety, a world that broke, and tortured, and hurt him with laughter and a smile. He can ignore the voice, stay where he is, safe and sound. No pain, no numbness, just nothingness. Guaranteed he won't have to worry much about thinking or feeling.  
Or he can follow that voice, leave his mind, his little safe haven, and return to a world of pain and to the voice that abandoned him when he needed him most. What does the boy pick?_

* * *

…

…

…

It's not a tough choice.

Blind, stupid loyalty, all the way.

* * *

_**Fin.**_


End file.
